KerrieJean.com

KJ’s OFFICIAL RIVERINA TOUR SCHEDULE ANNOUNCED!

(If you haven’t read the story at the end of this schedule please do so in the interests of comprehension)

Official Schedule:

Friday June 4th – 8:30am. Flight: Air Valium, Sydney-Wagga Wagga. 

Arrive Wagga Wagga 9:30am: Detox. Hire car to Holbrook. Secret (recorded) counselling session with resident Sister of St Joseph.

Friday, June 4th, 6pm. Triumph entry into Leeton. Ceremonial Booze Bus escort. Prawn Cutlet Reception, Leeton RSL.

Sat, June 5th, 11pm. Six-hour Pine Avenue  traditional lapping session in pink 1982 Holden panel van. *Official Cystic Fibrosis Rally car no 181.

Sun, June 6th, 1pm. Historic (for gender reasons) raid on the Leeton-Whitton Crows Australian Rules Football Club’s  ’rub down’ and pre-match hype up sheds - Leeton Showgrounds. 

Sunday, June 6th, 2pm. Front row deluxe grandstand seat (cushion provided), Leeton-Whitton Crows V Narrandera Imperial Eagles.

Sun, June 6th, 10pm. ‘Leeton By Night’ - Roo Shooting,  Brobenah Hills.

Tuesday, June 8th, 10:30 am. Full-body waxing session,  full-body body piercing,  full-body Juju Bed toxin removal, Tresses Salon, Pine Avenue Leeton.

Wednesday, June 8th: 3:oopm. Flight: Air Valium, Wagga Wagga-Sydney. Detox.

*  Just in: The Rev Kev releases KJ tour statement (see comments section).

* Pre Schedule Release Story below…..

It’s pathetic – even criminal – when self-obsession gets the upper hand.

Truly, I cannot believe I ever wrote this:

Kerrie Jean desperately wants you to participate in this blog.

At this time of life, another failure could be catastrophic. (September, 2008)

(KJ: ‘I am willing to strip myself bare…’ credit: Tracey Trompf)

Looking back, how silly, how childish because Boy O Boy have I got news!

Simply put, I am in receipt of a Highly Stimulatin’ Development Package from ABC Management. It’s a ‘no strings’ proposition and (just quietly) comes at the end of a  ‘take no prisoners’  dog-eat-dog competitive process.

Beat that!

If I felt like it, I could build a new ‘Kerriejean.com Trans Fat  Tuckshop’ at Leeton Primary School, I could a fund a Grong Grong bolt hole for my lesbian lover - or I could blow taxpayers’ monies on a couple of vials of botox or derma filler. 

*Ed’s note:  Just so you know I’m not kidding, I did secretly self-fund three vials of derma filler three months ago.

For the record – and if you’re a case of ‘derma filler just waiting to happen’ - the sixteen 52-centimetre-long  pre derma filler face deadening needles going right through my right lower cheek and emerging out the other did hurt a bit. 

But still, no pain, no gain.

In fact, so natural, so non-intrusive was my $1200 worth of Australian made derma filler, no one noticed any difference.  And that’s what you want, is it not?

Anyway, now is now and (can you believe it?) on Friday I’ll be jetting to the Riverina with a full set of jowls, a producer with more laughter lines than Charlie Chaplin - and enough hard cash to stay in whatever motels we want within a 1098 kilometre radius of Wagga Wagga.

Pacific Rim populace – in unison:

What for? It’s afterall my money you’re playing with? [I knew this'd come up, I just knew it.....sigh, sigh, sigh]

‘ALL RIGHT, steady on….to…to….to…bloody well collect what we call in the business ‘material’ for a groundbreaking on-airable, podcastable, on- lineable, twatable, facebookable, multi-platformable, demountable, Walkley Awardable COMEDY series.’

Thank you KJ, but I’m NOT convinced…..

Maybe you just wanna get outta town? 

……Things a ‘little hot’ presently?  Got a meta-narrative? Got a through line? Got ANYTHING on paper?

‘Thank you for asking Pacific Rim populace.  Just so happens I do…….[sigh, sigh, sigh]

The meta-narrative is that I’ve never understood why most Australians don’t think about - let alone have real affection - for Leeton.

So, I’m going to emotionally (and physically) strip myself naked in an attempt to discover whether my enduring – even crazed love – is based on cheap nostalgia  or something much more…….’

……Perhaps even – from teenagehood - my pathological inability to create a new and viable adult life…..

(Oh God, oh God, I’ve said it). 

So confronting is all this, the other day I broke down in my producer’s arms:

I truly don’t mind being stripped bare at every turn, but I fear peeling myself back only to find – like a cling peach on a canning line -  that I have no core.

Producer:  Shut up KJ! Even if you don’t conclude you’ll go back to Leeton to live, would you consider going there to die…?

God, this is hard. But I if I continue to peel myself back just a little every day, things could work out…..

So, while I write – freezing in just my sports brassiere and cottontails - this is what I’ve (potentially) got lined (potentially) up (potentially) thus far……

*Brazilian wax (Friday). Producer: Good work! I’m surprised you found someone to do it.

*Trip to Griffith to find someone to help me get back the $1200 dollars I blew on the derma filler (Tuesday).

*Visit to the Leeton-Whitton Crows dressing shed (Sunday). I sidled in there once as a teenager when post-match ’rubbing down’ was underway – only to be told that if I ever did it again, police would be called.

….I’d like to know, HAVE to know, whether things have changed re Riverina spatial gender relations.

What YOU can do to help with this project:

*Pray that the prop jet makes it to Wagga Wagga and that I keep my traditional in-flight valium dose right on the knife edge that is just between comatose and a panic induced front page making in-flight incident. 

*Tell everybody that KJ is striking a blow for women of a certain age and it’d be a crying shame if she peeled herself right back to her very core – and no-one gave a damm.

Finally, everyone can look forward to hearing from (and seeing a lot more of) my new manager, Jim.  He’s got his whole life ahead of him. I don’t think I could live with myself if I ruined that.

******So, a very special day for kerriejean.com, particularly when it comes to value adding. All reports from your patch welcome, plus the EXTRA pressure of suggestions for THE project. This is what you do:

Just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

To live a double life is to be propelled into dark places way out of your usual personal TomTom range…….

(cr: Gabby DC: flickr)

How do I know?

Because I did.

I’d like to say it all started innocently, but that would be a lie.

On a day even more appalling than others, Sister Mary McKillya – of St Joseph’s Convent and Prison Farm, Leeton – made terrible accusations about my relationship with The Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Specifically, that I had weak ties with the best trio that (sort of) ever lived.

Sister Mary McKillya informed me that I was now on a Holy Trinity Disciplinary Programme. 

Daily - at 4pm - I was to collect eggs from Leeton’s most productive chookyard which was in the grounds of the nearby Presbytery. 

After collecting the eggs in a big enamel bucket (provided as part of my programme) I was to cross the road, knock on the convent kitchen door and hand over the eggs to Sister Egg Contact.

*Suspecting there were adult concepts involved I dared not ask why nuns could not – in pairs, if need be - harvest their own eggs.

That afternoon, I told Gwennie her daughter was an Egg Runner. 

Without hestitation, in a threatening tone which I had never heard before, or since, she said:

I WANT SOME AND I’LL PAY.

And so it was that Egg Pimp Gwennie put a false bottom in the enamel bucket.  

For a while, I was happy. I collected the eggs. I hid four and I handed over the rest to Sister Egg Contact. Sometimes, Sister Egg Contact would give me rainbow cake and lemonade. And talk about how Sister Mary McKillya was pleased with my progress on the Trinity Discipline Programme:

She is turning into a fine Egg Collector and is earning trust…..

Thank you Sister Egg Contact……

…..All the while thinking: 

You dare come near that bucket, and I swear to God I won’t be able to guarantee your personal safety…..swear to God I WON’T!!!

Every Friday, Gwennie paid up.

But she was changing. And not in a nice way. She was high, drowning in the compliments she got about cakes made with the contraband Super Eggs.

I’d take a vow of celibacy if it meant all my eggs could be like that……..

And then one day:

I want more KJ, I WANT MORE!

Soon, I was reporting to Sister Egg Contact that I wasn’t masquerading as a vet BUT the chooks didn’t look at all well – in fact, half dead -  AND hardly any were laying.

By then, I had so much cash I was laundering it in Griffith - buying dozens and dozens of boob tubes which I knew I’d never get to wear.

Gwennie, who had been so loved for her modest nature, turned obnoxious. She spent her days pushing sponges:

Look at this,  will you please just take a look at THIS!!!

So, how did it all end?

If I don’t say so myself, very well thank you.

One day, Sister Egg Contact announced that the St Vincent de Paul society wanted to resume the chookyard site for charitable purposes. I was to be re-assigned to altar cleaning duties.

And Gwennie?

She went back to being nice.

But not before she’d made it very clear around town that she thought the nuns use of child labour, disgraceful.

***********************************

*So, there you have it – I’m out, out, OUT and proud of it. I hope Gwennie feels the same way – I really, really do…..

Have you ever lived (or ARE living ) a double life? Would love to know all about it. Anyone who tells you it can’t  sometimes be fun is really having themselves on, don’t you think?

Perhaps you have just have fond memories of a chookyard from long ago…..

And, as usual, the poetry, the prose and the peccadillos that ARE  the stanzas of your life (did I really write that?) are eagerly awaited…….

All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Please do not read too much into what I’m about to tell you…..

Remember: ‘I was not a hero but just an ordinary girl who had a dream.’

And in 1974, the authorities at Leeton High School mandated that my dream could come true – but only if The Riverina’s Youngest Female Eunuch With The Most Potential moved fast – and only if Gwennie (mum) was up for it.

The historic mandate? 

That female HSC aspirants could finally -  if it did NOT go against their or their boyfriends’ religious or moral codes - wear pants. 

(KJ had a pants dream: Cr: cynstrom: flickr)

There was much to plan after the Pants Mandate came down. Intense lobbying started that very afternoon.

[KJ to Gwennie] I wanna be the first! I gotta be the first girl to wear pants to school.

[Gwennie] Why?

[KJ] Because I am going nowhere as a sex object but here’s my chance to shut up (names particularly bitchy types) when I come out loud and proud as Leeton’s trailblazing Female Eunuch….

As Jessica Watson knows, a dream is worth nought if you don’t have loved ones willing to share it  -  EVEN ready and willing to see you die in pursuit of it. 

And Gwennie knew her Young Female Eunuch With The Most Potential risked everything in the pursuit of her Pants Dream. But no matter.

Within the hour, Gwennie had relieved the Mates Emporium of  2.8 yards of 45 inch-wide regulation Leeton High School viscose/acrylic black and white check material, one black six-inch zipper, two black buttons and a pattern for (fetching) size 10 City Skyline Lounge Pants. Pants that were in the  ’high degree of difficulty’ Simplicity Patterns’ ’Sophisticates’ collection.

All through the night, Gwennie laboured over the City Skyline Lounge Pants.  She and her ’Singer’ had a date with history. And she and her ‘Singer’ would keep it. 

The morning dawned clear and frosty….

Perfect conditions for The Eunuch to enter the gates of LHS after which great things would unfold….

Surely the principal would demand a photographer from ‘The Irrigator’ come down immediately, surely over-excited students of both sexes would try to feel, (okay grope) The Eunuch’s City Skyline Lounge Pants, surely for matters of personal safety The Eunuch would be sent home until things calmed down.

This is what happened. 

As usual, Gwennie waved me off at around 8:30am.  Not before observing though that the City Skyline Lounge Pants were a bit tight in ‘THE crotch region’ but that could ‘POSSIBLY be fixed’.

She also observed that black and white checks could be ‘overpowering’ and ‘better suited to skirts’.

Her final observation?

Gee KJ, you look like a big DJ’s parcel. Good luck!

At school, nothing much happened………

Just a steady stream of those particularly bitchy types confirming that the City Skyline Lounge Pants were a bit tight ‘across the front’, they’d be getting their’s made in Wagga Wagga…..or they were not gunna wear pants ’cause Rodney and Jezza were dead against ‘em.

*I got one good season out of the historic City Skyline Lounge Pants. The tight crotch problem disappeared – under a size 22 black jumper.

The Riverina Eunuch With The Most Potential had gone feral. 

************************************************

Oh dear, FIZZERS…….aren’t they awful? I might as well confess – there’s a part of me that wants Jessica W to break down and admit she did pop into a spice market – or somesuch - on Cape Horn. That she did have have a night in a disco in Barbados or wherever…….

Go on, be honest.  TELL ME  you haven’t had the same thoughts (as unpalatable as they are).

So, if you’ve got any landmark personal FIZZERS – or sigh, dreams - you’d like to tell the world about, go ahead. NOT for therapeutic purposes mind - just so everyone can marvel at your stupidity.

And – as always -  reports from your patch are most welcome. Or let me put it this way - management says they are integral to the sucess of this whole undertaking! 

All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Last night, I dreamt I was back in Mrs R’s winter parlour.

So good it was I awoke this morning with that tell tale residue of contentment on my pillow - Dribble, Dribble, Dribble……

The scene, the Dribble Driver?

Five girls and Mrs Ross, Leeton’s answer to Mrs Bennet only without the pride, without the prejudice.

In the parlour, Mrs Ross (in modest sleep attire) is propped up in her purple lounge chair (with faux gold legs) just to the side of the colossal fireplace. 

(Cr: KayVee.INC: flickr)

She’s busy.

Between doing running repairs on the pink, blue and yellow plastic rollers dotting her skull, she’s on high fire alert. 

NO need to remind her the Riverina has the most dangerous (read ‘driest’) domestic fossil fuels in Australia.

No need at all. For during the harsh winters, Mrs R is known as Leeton’s niftiest one-officer domestic fire fighting unit.

Come late May, Captain Mrs R is putting the finishing touches on her parlour fire plan:  one enamel water bucket (full),  one poker, one huge square of already burnt out carpet overlayed on the ‘good stuff’ and one old rubber soled slipper.

Come early June, the fireplace is in full swing. No one hears the television as blocks of  rare red river gum explode, propelling showers of big cinders (Grade: ’Catastrophic’) straight over the grate.

Captain Mrs R’s five girls do not react. They’re  in various states of  petulant teenager repose – their fire resistant flannelette pyjamas covered by jaunty fire attractant poly vinyl dressing gowns .

Ugly exemplars of ‘Every Girl For Herself’.

So, it’s Captain Mrs R who’s (again) putting herself on the line for her hysterical ne’r-do-wells who (all of a sudden) are yelling and swearing and pushing each other into the parlour spot fires.

And our Captain faces hard decisions that no one should ever have to make. Like: 

* Should the ONE rubber-soled slipper be used NOW on the spot fire threatening the HMV TV?  (rosewood cabinet, sourced in Perth, transported to the parlour long before the Nullabor was sealed….)

*Should the ONE bucket of water be used NOW on the Riverina’s most foul tempered pet, Bindi Boo Major, who (as usual) had been basking flat out (Portugese chicken style)  far too close to the furnace?  He’s taking the worst cinder hits. Gone ballistic.

And most worrying of all……

*Should our adrenaline-driven Captain be concerned about what she THINKS is the terrible smell of melting plastic on her person? Could it be that a cinder has lodged in a roller and is doing its foul and dangerous work?

This is a potentiality that CANNOT be contemplated……

So, while her brood continues to humiliate itself with selfish, anti-cinder-defeating bleatings –  ’Am I on fire?’, ‘Am I on fire?’,  ’Am I on fire?’  ’Git away’, ‘GIT AWAY’! – Captain Mrs R commands:

‘Get these rollers out of my hair, get them out. NOW!!.’

It is as if time stops.

And then, the n’er-do-wells start acting like the tight firefighting unit Captain Mrs R had always prayed for.

Knowing that what they’re about to do will hurt their Captain – but knowing that it has to be done – has imbued a sense of purpose, even maturity.

Within eight seconds, there’s a pile of plastic rollers on the fire floor. 

And with eyes still bulging with pain, the Captain goes to work like never before.

Within three crucial minutes, Leeton’s most lusted after television has been saved (slipper work), all spot fires have been extinguished (slipper and bucket work), a singed Bindi Boo Major is back to his usual foul self and only one of the fire attractant dressing gowns has been rendered no longer fit for personal use (duster bag material).

The fire Captain assumes her possie.

And we are warm against the freezing temperatures that are the hallmark of the Murrumbigee Irrigation Area, NSW.

*********************************************************

Isn’t it a shame that people don’t have raging open parlour fires anymore?

Apparently, the last bastion is Launceston. But, I seem to remember reading that authorities want to stop the fun because of air quality or somesuch. One thing I can tell you. When Captain Mrs R finally succumbed to the power and mystery of THE oil burner (her nerves finally went) things just weren’t as cosy.

So, love to hear about your winter domestic firefighting activities…..or perhaps you had (or have) other equally powerful family rituals that made (make) you feel loved and cosseted…….

And, as we all know, it’s a ‘free-for-all’ in here – a heady mix of the personal, the political - and sometimes,  just meaningless tilts towards gross stupidity. Bravo! 

All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it

Could this be the best ever obit for a (non-Riverina) Bachelor…….?

‘It is not known whether Max Whitehead was ever besieged by couples seeking to have him sire their children – the experience of Charles Atlas – but Max Whitehead, the original model for Chesty Bond, was known to have a ‘quick sidestep’.

Blessed with a glorious physique, he also excelled at using it, as a surf lifesaver, rugby league player and wrestler…

Like Chesty Bond of the cartoon world, he rescued damsels in distress…..

Max Riddington, a one-time captain and president of the Manly Surf Life Saving Club, said Whitehead never married because of his sidestep (evasive action). ”He had some lovely ladies but he felt that sort of life was not for him,” Riddington said.’

*Please, please click ‘ere for the full Max Whitehead tribute or you might not understand my piece which (just quietly) I spent quite a bit of time on….. 

http://www.smh.com.au/national/obituaries/chesty-bond-was-a-gentle-giant-20100502-u1an.html

Now, back to me………

Mister Chesty Bond!

What a guy! What a bod! What demeanour! And how’s that ‘quick sidestep’? Sure wish I was a good 30 years older……

Thing is though, let’s not get too carried away. For the reality is there were other trailblazing Bachelor Chesty Bonders in Leeton when I still Miss No Chesty Nothin’.

(Leeton’s Bachelor Chesty Bonders’ Convention 1967: Cr: Magic Liwanag: flickr)

Thing is, they’ve never had their due – until now.

Sadly (at best) the Riverina Bachelor Chesty Bonders were barely tolerated: allowed, even encouraged, to buy tickets in family hamper raffles but denied the booty if their numbers came up.  At worst, Bachelor Chesty Bonders were treated cruelly, ostracised:

[Wazza to Wife Barb] ’There’s no waaay, no waaaay Rod’s comin’ to the barbie….NO WAAAY….. 

I’m NOT gunna sit there watchin’ you hangin’ off his every word AND humiliatin’ me mates by (you Barb) givin’ him the best T-Bone.  No waay, NO WAAAY!’

*Ed’s note: Please be aware that the demographic in kerriejean’s spotlight today is heterosexual Bachelor Chesty Bonders.

By age 18, the other single Leeton Chesty Bonders were all gone. Flushed parents told anyone who’d listen how well Neil was doing at Art School in Melbourne. Having a ball in digs shared with Qantas stewards called Justin or Tim.

The truth?

Neil would never be home again, not even for Christmas. He was (with good reason) scared for his very life if he ever dared re-embrace his hometown. 

Meanwhile – despite Wazza’s misgivings -  our other Bachelor Chesty Bonders had NO intention of being run out Leeton.

Quite the opposite.

These bons vivants aimed to – and did – provide superb community service.

Because – despite Wazza’s misgivings – there were married women sporting the most powerful combo of characteristics known to humankind: audacity and desperation. 

For them, the Bachelor Chesty Bonders – whose primal appetites were  dramatically juxtaposed by their civilized taste in jazzy sports jackets and spectacularly striped ties - were Godsends. 

Some well-known Bachelor Chesty Bonders even assumed the rarified status of ‘Dancing Partner’.

AND the wondrous thing?

Wazza could raise all Hell all day every day if he felt so inclined, BUT there was a question he would never EVER dare ask:  Namely:

Has my Pantswoman Barb fallen for Pantsman Rod? (Rod in the brightly coloured moccasins….)

*Ed’s note. For kerriejean, journalistic ethics have always been far more than glossy pamphlets. 

So, in the interests of full disclosure, she’s compelled to point out that Hec was the Riverina’s Bachelor Of The Decade six times!  He was in his mid-thirties when a bright little sexpot called Gwennie brought his illustrious bachelor career to a screaming halt.

Very, very late for ‘the times’…

And kerriejean is anxious to impart that Hec was NEVER anybody’s dancing partner. When Gwennie came bursting through his heart he accepted that the world (as he knew and loved it) would come crashing down. BUT, he was to regain it (and more!) when human rights groups put an end to the draconian six o’clock pub closing rules.

In the meantime:

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the beautiful Riverina take your partners for the Al Grassby Quick (Side) Step! ’

************************************************

*As in the bloggers’ lot throughout the world, I await news……..

Particularly interested in hearing from contemporary Pantsmen and Pantswomen who want to pay tribute to those who chose the lifestyle when it wasn’t easy at all.  Things may be great for YOU but that doesn’t mean the pioneering Pantsmen and Pantswomen shouldn’t be acknowledged.

And – as usual - I’d love report backs from the nooks and crannies that constitute your lives. Thanks to the new posters who’ve come in here of late. Appreciated? SURE!   

All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo – just ignore it